


Back in Time

by poetofthebees



Series: Back in Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (not for actual sex, 90'S, Angst, Fluff, John POV, John's Childhood, Johnlock - Freeform, Lonely John, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Third Person, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02, Prostitution, Punk Greg, Punk Mycroft, Sad John, Slight OOC, Teenlock, Time Travel, Underage - Freeform, Uni John, also a little surprise at the end ;), but Sherlock's a teenage prostitute so), implied rape, like maybe a certain tall genius, mention of ballet!lock, mention of drugs, mention of non graphic rape, more tags to come, mystrade, prostitution AU, warnings for mentions of child abuse, wow what a creative title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetofthebees/pseuds/poetofthebees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is offered the chance to go back in time twenty years. He gets a few surprises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this story for a long time now, and I finally am! Okay, this story is completely flawed, and I know absolutely nothing about time travel. Just don’t look too hard at the science behind this, because there really isn’t any. I have zero knowledge of anything British, so sorry about that, as well. As always, I am un-beta’d and un-brit picked, so all mistakes are mine. I really enjoy writing this story. Young John is my life. Please leave comments, suggestions, and constructive criticism! I'm always looking to improve.-Alethea

When Mycroft first told John about the time machine, he didn’t believe it.

He had crossed him arms and raised an eyebrow at Mycroft. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I assure you, Dr. Watson, that I am not,” Mycroft had answered coolly. John noticed Mycroft’s knuckles whitening on his umbrella handle.

“Alright, fine, but why’re you telling me?” John asked, sitting down in his chair, purposely not looking at the empty one across from him.

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock’s empty chair. “This is a top secret experiment, John, and given the fact that you are a _courageous_ army doctor, I mentioned your name as a candidate to test it.”

John had laughed. He had actually laughed, completely unforced, for the first time in months. “I don’t think being shot at makes me a good choice for going to the future.”

Mycroft leaned daintily on his umbrella. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

John’s laughter ceased. “What do you mean?”

“This time machine, as it is called, can only go _backward_ in time. We also have no way of knowing where one would end up. Possibly in the same spot, or one could end up in the depths of the Atlantic.”

“So, this is a suicide mission, is what you’re saying,” John said, silently praising himself for not stumbling over suicide.

Mycroft looked at him carefully. “Do you honestly think I can’t deduce how the last few months have been for you? I have been keeping a very close eye on you, Dr. Watson; you and I both know how many times you’ve taken your gun from its drawer.”

John’s eyes had widened, but he said nothing.

“You could see him, John. Perhaps even change the course of history?” Mycroft saw the hopeful look on John’s face and knew he had won him over.

“Okay,” John had conceded, “When do I start?”


	2. Chapter 1

A silent woman wearing a lab coat walked John to a large, open room in the facility Mycroft had brought him to.

The room was vacant, save for several men and women in lab coats and a large, box-shaped object in the middle of the room. It was dull silver in color; John assumed it was made of steel. It was plugged into various contraptions covered in lights and switches. To John, it seemed like something out of a science fiction movie. It was so surreal that he could hardly believe it.

John had not been prepared for this “assignment” at all. He still couldn’t see why exactly Mycroft chose him, other than to get his mind off Sherlock’s...death. His brain wouldn’t stop replaying the image of Sherlock falling from Bart’s, that damn coat billowing in the wind. But, if this worked, if John could go back, then maybe he could fix things, someway, somehow.

A man walked up to John and introduced himself as Professor Ellington. He had a stern look on his face and a white goatee. “Now, John, is it?

“Yes,” John answered, his eyes darting around the room.

“Alright, I’m going to explain a little; I’m sure you’ve got questions. After that, we’ll get started, alright?”

John nodded. “Okay, so how does this work?” he asked.

And immediately regretted doing so.

Professor Ellington went into a 45 minute long spiel about physics and time and space and who knows what else. John blocked him out after the first few minutes, and nodded politely instead of listening. When Professor Ellington was finally, _finally_ done, he told John things he could understand.

“Alright, so we’re going to put you about twenty years back. We can’t control the exact date or the location or if you die, but everything should be fine,” he said, walking with John towards the machine.

“So, I’m the first person to test this?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“Er, yes, but not to worry, we’ve got you covered, alright?”

John was starting to hate this man and his excessive usage of ‘alright.’ He was beginning to regret his decision, that is, until he remembered Sherlock.

“I’m not going to bump into my twenty year old self, am I?” John asked, suddenly.

Professor Ellington laughed. “We don’t think so; we’re hoping you might even wake up in your young body. This is the first time we’re doing this, remember? We have no way of knowing anything as of now, which is where you come in.”

I hate this man, John thought bitterly.

“And, I’m just going to be put in a random spot, or where I was on the day, or what?” John asked.

“Maybe random, maybe not; perhaps fate will intervene, eh?”

“How am I getting back?”

“Well, we’ll leave you there for a few days, and then hopefully we can pull you back. If not, I guess you get the chance to re-live your life.”

John snorted. “Wow. That’s comforting.”

Professor Ellington opened the door of the machine to reveal various colored cords and electrode-like things dangling from the ceiling. John swallowed. He hadn’t been nervous until now.

“Alright, John, I need you to step in so I can attach the electrodes to your temples and chest.”

John cautiously stepped in, and unbuttoned his shirt before peeling of his vest. Professor Ellington’s hands were cool on his temples, and the electrodes felt slightly like suction cups. After everything was in place, Professor Ellington stepped back out and said, “Good luck,” before shutting the door behind him.

John took in a shaky breath. He had no idea what to expect. For all he knew, he could explode or be put back in time thousands or millions of years. Or, what if it didn’t work at all? John didn’t know what was worse. He was close to changing his mind, when he felt a slight sting on his temples. Then everything went black.


	3. Chapter 2

He woke up in his flat. His _old_ flat in his _young_ body. His head was throbbing and the room stank of stale beer. Ah, the joys of Uni. He sat up, realizing he was on the ratty old couch that his old flatmate, Joseph, had brought from home.

“Bloody _fuck_ ,” John muttered, sliding his legs over the couch, noting his stained jeans. “It worked. How the hell did it work?”

“Shut the hell up,” came an irritated voice from the floor. _Oh my god_ , John thought, rubbing at his eyes, _Is that Mike?_

John itched at his neck where, if he remembered correctly, he had a hickey from Emily who was Mike’s...cousin? _I need to get out of here_ , John thought frantically, suddenly feeling suffocated.

He searched around the dim living room for a shirt, luckily finding an unstained long-sleeved band shirt. He didn’t know the band, so he assumed the shirt was someone else’s.

John pulled on his jacket that had been hanging off a chair and nearly ran out the door. He was greeted by London, 1992.

He breathed in the familiar air and ran a hand through his shaggy, blond, grey-free hair. God, he had missed being twenty. John wished he could enjoy it more, but he just couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he went back twenty years without his intestines being pulled inside out or his brain melting.

He was about to just walk about and enjoy being young again when he realized: Sherlock’s alive right now. Now, John knew that Sherlock wouldn’t recognize him or know him at all, but maybe if John just saw Sherlock alive and breathing, he could finally get that long awaited sense of relief.

 _How on Earth am I going to find Sherlock?_ John wondered, looking for a cab. _Maybe Scotland Yard? The bastard’s probably solving cases already._

John smiled and hailed a cab.

***

John walked into Scotland Yard and realized too late that Greg wasn’t DI yet. He sighed and pushed his hands in his pockets. He could always ask someone else. As John looked around, he saw a young flirty looking receptionist, and pasted a smile on his face.

“Hi,” John said, walking up, “could I ask you a question?”

The girl took one look at John’s rugby-fit body and nodded quickly. “Yeah, what can I help you with?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you could help me find a friend of mine. I think he comes in here sometimes, so maybe you’ve seen him before?”

“I don’t know, what’s he look like?” she said, smoothing down the front of her blouse.

“Well, he’s tall, and he’s got this messy black hair. It’s curly. He’s also got intense cheekbones; you couldn’t miss him.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “You mean the Holmes boy?”

John noticed she had lowered her voice. “Yes! Exactly! Have you seen him around?”

“Well, he’s been in here a few times in the last year. That brother of his always comes in to bail him out, though.”

“Wait, bailed out?” John asked, raising his eyebrows. Was this about the drugs?

“Yeah,” the girl said, picking at her nails, “I’ve heard loads of rumors about him. Apparently, he’s been in for theft, vandalism, drug charges, and even-”

“Thanks, you’ve been a great help,” John said, cutting her off and promptly walking out the door.

He thought he could remember where the “seedy” parts of London were, but he wasn’t sure.

John walked around for a few hours, coming across drug abusing teenagers, homeless people, and various other dirty looking Londoners. It was night when he decided to give up and go back to his flat.

John had his head down and was walking along a known prostitute strip, when he bumped into a figure smoking a cigarette.

“Fuck off!” came a voice from above him.

But that voice, he knew that voice. Yes, the voice he knew had been deeper, but there was no mistaking it. _Goodbye, John._

John looked up to see sixteen year old Sherlock Holmes.

 


	4. Chapter 3

John’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw Sherlock. Sherlock’s clothes were dirty and tight, and his usually perfect hair was a tangled mop on his head.

 _What the hell?!_ John thought, _What is he doing here?_

Sherlock looked John up and down. “Are you looking for some fun, or what? I’ve got other customers, you know.”

Sherlock took a drag off his cigarette and blew it in John’s face, smirking when John coughed. “That's a no, then? Pity, you're quite fit. I could've had loads of fun with you. You should just accept your bisexuality, you know; it's not going to just go away.”

John winced and was about to ask Sherlock why the bloody sodding _fuck_ he would be a prostitute, when a car pulled up.

The man in the car rolled down the window and shouted at Sherlock. “Hey, kid, care for a joy ride?”

John looked at Sherlock, whose face fell before putting on a smiling, flirty mask. Sherlock flicked his cigarette to the ground, muttering a weak ‘excuse me’ to John on his way past him.

Sherlock leaned into the window, and John could hear snippets of the conversation.

“How much...big boy...what'll you...in the back...my place...no...c’mon...slut.”

By then, John had had enough. He walked over to Sherlock, grabbing him by the collar and telling the man to ‘fuck off’ before pulling Sherlock into a nearby alley.

In his fury, he had grabbed Sherlock’s collar with both hands and pushed him against the wall.

“What the _fuck_ are you thinking? You're, what, _sixteen_? You're just a kid, you-”

Sherlock cut in then, his voice shaking a little. “Please, don't hurt me, I can't- I'll give you all the money I have, please, I can't let this happen again, I-”

John dropped him immediately. “ _What?_ ”

“I'm sorry I was rude to you, really, if you need money, you can just call my brother. Please.” Sherlock was pushing himself against the wall, and John thought he could see tears in his eyes. John backed away, holding his hands up.

“I'm sorry, I'm just- I was angry. What happened to you?”

Sherlock looked at him like he was insane. “Who the fuck _are_ you? I don't have to tell you anything.”

“Does Mycroft know?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock blinked. “Are you with the police? Did my brother send you? Tell me who you are!”

John sighed. Sherlock would never believe him. “I'm, er, a friend of your brother, yes.”

Sherlock was lighting up a cigarette, watching John carefully. He took a drag and said, tightly, “You can leave, and you can tell my brother to _sod off_.”

John shook his head. “I can't do that. You and I are going to see Mycroft.”

Sherlock snorted and blew smoke from his nose. “You can't make me, so kindly fuck off and go back to being one of my brother’s pets.”

“Where is your brother?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You don't know? That's a shame.”

John didn't want to threaten Sherlock, but he felt that he had to. “Either tell me where he is, or I'll tell him about...this.”

Sherlock hesitated before taking a long, slow drag. “He's in his fucking club, alright? Stockwell or something? Tell him to leave me alone; I get enough shit as it is.”

John was about to leave, but he stopped, pausing to just look at Sherlock for a moment. It wasn't the same Sherlock John once knew, but it was still Sherlock. A younger, broken Sherlock. John noticed then, the slightly glazed over look of Sherlock's turquoise eyes.

“This is for the drugs, isn't it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe I just have nothing better to do.”

“You could stop this, you know; get clean. You could make something of yourself. You're a sodding genius, Sherlock. You're better than this.”

Sherlock laughed and glanced towards the street, where a car was waiting. “You don't know me. Trust me, I'm not better than this.”

With that, Sherlock walked over to the car and got into the passenger side. John could just see through the tinted windows that Sherlock was leaning over the driver.

John felt sick all of a sudden and walked the other way. It was probably around midnight by now, and John needed to find Mycroft.

 


	5. Chapter 4

By the time he reached the club, John was tired and pretty pissed off. He didn't know what the hell he was doing anymore, but he couldn't stop himself from trying to help Sherlock.

Maybe that was why he was put on this Earth: to help Sherlock, to save him.

John heard thumping punk rock music coming from the open door, to his surprise. Mycroft owned a club like _this_? John would have bet all the money in his bank account that Mycroft had never even _heard_ punk rock before. Apparently, he was wrong.

He didn't realize just how wrong he was, until he saw Mycroft dancing in the club. Wearing tight ripped jeans and leather boots. Was he wearing a Sex Pistols shirt? _What the fuck is going on?_ John thought as he pushed his way through the crowd of young punks. John was almost to Mycroft when he noticed who Mycroft was dancing with.

 _Are you fucking_ kidding _me?_ John thought, incredulous. This night couldn't get any stranger.

Dancing up on Mycroft was a young man with his ears pierced and wearing an all black outfit. John hadn't recognized him at first, due to the dark brown hair, but the face was unmistakable. It was none other that Gregory Lestrade.

John remembered Greg mentioning something about being really into punk when he was young, but John had never imagined this. The fact that Greg and Mycroft were sucking on each other's faces now was also a surprise. John had figured Mycroft was gay, but _Greg_?

 _Thanks for not telling me, mate,_ John thought bitterly, moving forward to push the two boys apart.

“Oi!” Greg shouted, his hands becoming fists. “What the fuck?”

John rolled his eyes and turned to Mycroft. “I need to speak to you about your brother.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “How much money does he owe you?”

John blinked at him. “Money? What? No. I want to talk to you about that little hobby of his.”

John watched as Mycroft and Greg exchanged looks. “Follow me to my office,” Mycroft practically yelled as the music started getting louder.

John followed Greg and Mycroft to a door where a large man opened it for them. The office was pristine, which was to be expected from Mycroft. Or was it? John didn't quite know anymore.

Mycroft sat behind the desk and gestured for John to sit across from him. John sat, noticing that Greg was behind him, leaning on the now shut door.

Mycroft ran a hand through his just-starting-to-thin ginger hair before asking, “Is this blackmail?”

John nearly laughed. “Are you kidding me? No, it's not _blackmail_.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Then what is it?”

John swore that Mycroft was wearing eyeliner. Now _that_ would be great for blackmail. “I'm just someone who cares about Sherlock's wellbeing.”

“No one cares about my brother’s wellbeing.”

“You and Greg do.”

John saw Mycroft's eyes widen when he said ‘Greg.’

“How do you know Gregory?” Mycroft asked, looking from John to Greg, questioningly.

John shrugged. “We've been friends for a few years now.”

“I've never seen you before in my life,” came Greg’s voice from behind him.

John nearly facepalmed. “Ah, shit, no. I mean, we're not friends now, but we will be is what I'm saying, I guess? This is all your bloody fault, Mycroft, roping me into this. I don't even know how long I'll be here.”

Mycroft was looking at him like he had just suggested that they should paint Big Ben pink.

“Excuse me? I don't understand.”

“Oh, Jesus. Let me explain. You're not going to believe this-”

“Then why even tell us?” Mycroft cut in.

“Because otherwise you'll just think that I'm stalking you and your brother for money reasons or some shit, when actually I just want to help Sherlock. I know how he is, okay? I know about the cocaine and the heroin and the prostitution. Well, I didn't know about that last one until a few hours ago, but- anyways, the point is, I'm on your side, really. Now, please just listen to what I have to say.”

John went on to tell them about Professor Ellington and Moriarty and the blog and the cases and the time machine and everything else. Mycroft never interrupted, instead looked more and more surprised as John continued. John mentioned things that only Mycroft could know, making John's story all the more credible.

John finished with a huff and leaned back in his chair. Mycroft was staring at him intensely.

“I believe you.”

John turned around to see Greg with his hands in his pockets. “Really?” John asked, surprised. “Why?”

“The stuff you said about me being a DI; I've never told anyone about wanting to work with the police. I never thought I could do it, much less be a Detective Inspector. I've never even told Myc about that.”

John laughed then. Oh, God, the fun he could have if he ever got back…

“ _Myc?_ ”

Greg and Mycroft just looked at him. John laughed again. “You have no idea how much fun I'm going to have with this when I get back. I didn't even know you guys had a thing. No wonder there's weird sexual tension between the two of you all the time.”

John watched as Mycroft and Greg looked at each other uncomfortably. It must’ve been painful to know that your relationship wouldn’t make it, for whatever reason, in the future. John wished he hadn’t told them, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Mycroft’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he asked John how long he would be in the past.

“I think a couple more days; I’ve only been here for maybe 12 hours,” John told him.

Mycroft nodded. “So, just what do you plan on doing while you’re here? Change the course of history? Tell everyone what happens in the future?”

John shook his head. “In the future, Sherlock’s gone. I miss him like hell, and there’s so much I was never able to tell him, so much I was never able to ask him. It’s too late now, but maybe if I could just, I don’t know, talk to him? Help him out? I was by his side for years, and now that he’s gone, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Greg put a hand on John’s shoulder. “I can see why we’re friends in the future; you seem like a good man.”

“Thanks, Greg,” John said, looking at his feet. “So, Mycroft, do you think I could talk to him?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows pushed together. “Yes, I’ll get him to talk to you, on one condition?”

John sighed. Of course. “What?”

“Don’t tell him anything about the future, or that you know him. Just be his friend, could you? Lord knows that’s what he needs right now. He’s unstable, and he won’t trust me or Gregory with anything.”

John nodded. “I understand. Thank you for this. Do you think I could see him tomorrow morning?”

“Sure, I’ll arrange for the two of you to meet here. The club doesn’t open until eight at night, so you’ll be relatively undisturbed.”

“Relatively?”

“Gregory will be there, of course. I must take precautions, you understand.”

John heard Greg groan behind him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you want. I just want to talk to him.”

“Can you be here by noon?” Mycroft asked, standing up.

“Yeah, I can. I’m not going to my classes, that’s for sure.”

John stood up, leaning forward to shake Mycroft’s hand, who was smirking. “Thank you for being there for him. Past and future.”

John smiled.

 


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! So, I have another chapter, and I'm currently working on a few more chapters. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading.- Alethea

John was nervous. When he had last talked with Sherlock, it hadn’t gone well. John desperately wanted Sherlock back, but that couldn’t happen. Sherlock was gone in the future.

But, he wasn’t gone now.

John walked to Mycroft’s club the next day, freshly showered, no longer smelling like stale beer and sweat. He ran his fingers through his hair, not realizing how messy he was making it. It was a quarter to noon as he stepped inside.

“John!” came Greg’s voice from behind the bar, “You’re early.”

John looked over to see Sherlock sitting at a table, fidgeting and repeatedly flicking his lighter. Sherlock was wearing clean clothes, but his hair was still a mess on the top of his head. John also saw that he had a black eye. Something hot tightened around John’s heart, and his hands turned to fists.

Sherlock looked up at him then. “Oh, it’s you. I figured. None of Mycroft’s other spies have ever bothered to even speak to me. I don’t know what you want from me, so-”

Sherlock paused, glancing down.

“I’m not going to tell you who hit me. Why should I, when yesterday you slammed me against a wall?”

Greg’s head turned to look at John. John shook his head slightly at Greg, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, I wasn’t tried to hurt you. I was upset that you’re wasting your life on the streets, shooting up drugs and selling your body.”

Sherlock looked frustrated. “I don’t even know who you are! Why do you _care_?”

“I care because I can. I know how smart you are and what you can, could do. I can’t just sit back and watch someone waste away,” John replied, walking over to Sherlock’s table and sitting down. “You can trust me. I want to know how you got into this...business.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m not going to tell my life story to someone I don’t even know the name of.”

John crossed his arms and leaned back. “Fine. My name is John Watson. I’m an ar- I’m a medical student, looking to be a doctor. My parents are dead, I have a twin sister, and I play rugby. That enough?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Okay, what else do you want to know?”

Sherlock smirked. “If I’m supposed to tell you my life story, you had better tell me yours.”

John swallowed. He had never told Sherlock about his childhood; he had always assumed that Sherlock could deduce it. It was something John liked to talk about, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t trust him otherwise.

“My dad was an alcoholic,” John started, hoping to just get it over with. “He drank almost every night. He was an angry drunk. He’d drink at the bar all night, then walk home, beer in hand, yelling at anyone he came across. So, of course he would yell at his family when he got home. Dad would scream at my mother, telling her she was a useless housewife who couldn’t take care of his kids, and couldn’t get a job, when in reality he wouldn’t allow her to get a job. We were in poverty my entire childhood because of that.

“So after screaming at my mum, he’d yell at Harry, my sister. She wasn’t good enough for him. Not smart enough, not nice enough. She started drinking when we were _fourteen_. She’s still an alcoholic. She's never accepted herself. She had to stay in the “closet” for years, in fact, my parents died before she ever told them.”

Sherlock blinked and cut in. “You don’t have to tell me this, really. I-”

John shook his head. “No. You wanted to know, so I’ll tell you.”

Sherlock looked down, and continued flicking his lighter.

“So, my dad would scream at my sister and my mom, telling them how they weren’t good enough. So, you’d think he’d yell at me, right? You'd be wrong. My dad hit me. He’d slap me across the face and punch me while I was disoriented. He’d push me down and kick me until my ribs were bruised. He’d hit me with his belt, his hands, his feet. I never understood why he hated me so much.”

John swallowed before continuing. “But the pain wasn’t the worst part. The worst part is when he’d laugh at me. If I cried, he’d laugh. If I begged him to stop, he’d laugh. He never said anything to me, but he’d always laugh. After awhile, I learned to leave the house before he came. I’d walk the entire neighborhood before coming home. My mum would be crying and Harry would be gone. My dad would be passed out on the couch, snoring and smelling of whiskey.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide. “John, how- how _could_ he?”

Greg spoke up from behind John. “Some parents aren’t kind to their children, Sherlock. My da left when I was three years old. You and Myc have great parents, so I don’t expect you to understand.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but turned to John with a strange look on his face.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, with a somber voice, “I’ll tell you what happened.”

 


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the longest one yet, and yes, there is more coming as soon as possible!

Sherlock looked at his lighter, flicking it once more before shoving it into his pocket. John saw the pained expression on his face, and knew that this was was difficult for Sherlock. John could understand that. John was about to tell him that it was okay, that he didn’t need to tell him now, when Sherlock began.

“My parents loved me more than I knew, when I was a child. But, they never understood me; no one understood me, except Mycroft, but Mycroft couldn’t always be there for me. As you probably know, Mycroft is 9 years older than I, and he’s always been ambitious. Unlike him, I couldn’t charm those around me with false words and polite smiles. In school, I was the weirdo, I was the _freak_.

“But, I tried. I tried talking to the other boys; I tried making friends. They laughed at me, called me names. Poof, fairy; there were more, but I try not to remember them. I didn’t even know I was gay until a few years ago. I suppose I seemed feminine to my classmates; I had been in ballet since I was four. Playing the violin didn’t help much either.”

“You’re in ballet?” John cut in, incredulous at the thought of Sherlock dancing. He could picture it, alright, but Sherlock had never even mentioned dancing to him.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Yes, why are you surprised?”

John blinked and shook his head. “I dunno, I just- You don’t seem like a dancer is all?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I look exactly like a dancer, John. I have what girls call a “ballerina body.”

John glanced at Sherlock’s thin and muscular frame. He had always had nice legs…

Sherlock squinted at John and continued. “Anyways. My entire school career was miserable. I had no friends, the teachers didn’t like me because I corrected them, but I aced every exam, so I got out early. I was going to continue my schooling when I met Thomas. I was nicking cigarettes at a shop when he walked behind me, telling me that he had something better than cigarettes, and would I like to try it?”

John knew what he was talking about then. Heroin.

“It all went to shit after that. I was addicted. I spent a good amount of my savings on heroin, and occasionally cocaine. I thought I would keep spending it until it was gone, but Mycroft figured out what was happening and froze my account. It’s still frozen.”

John saw something strange pass over Sherlock’s face in that moment, and didn’t think much of it until Sherlock continued talking.

“I was...desperate. I had no money and wouldn’t allow myself to go through withdrawals. So, I…”

Sherlock pauses, and John sees Sherlock struggling with his words. “I sold my body. I was 15 and a, erm, I had never‐ never done _that_. Before. I didn’t know what to expect and it, um.”

Sherlock glanced up at Greg who had been listening to the conversation uncomfortably. Greg understood immediately. “I’ll just go...take a piss then. I’ll be back in a bit.”

With that, Greg was gone.

John took hold of Sherlock’s hand. “You need to get this out, you need to let us help you, Sherlock. It’s okay, you can trust me.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I’ve never really trusted anyone, but with you, I- I don’t understand! I don’t know what it is about you. I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

John smiled. “Who knows? Maybe we met in another life.”

Sherlock laughed a little, the tears that had been forming in his eyes dripping hesitantly out the corners. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s just that this is...hard for me.”

John nodded knowingly. “I’m here, Sherlock. No one will hurt you again, as long as I’m here.”

Sherlock choked a little on his next words. “It hurt.”

Sherlock’s grip tightened on John’s hand as he spoke. “I thought it would be fine, that I’d never have to go all the way, but I was so wrong, John. He...he forced me. The first time. I couldn’t get his face out of my mind, so I shot up so much that I almost overdosed. Greg actually found me, which is how he met Mycroft. Mycroft found out about the, er, prostitution, but he couldn’t stop me. I needed drugs. I need drugs. I don’t know what to do. I’m useless now, John. I’m broken. No one wants me anymore.”

Sherlock brought a hand up to his own face, carefully pressing on the bruises. “I’m a monster, John.”

John blinked and realized with surprise that he was crying. No wonder Sherlock was the way he was. Being assaulted as a child, and continuing to go through that experience just for drugs would make anyone broken.

***

Sherlock and John talked for hours that day. They met up early the next morning to talk even more. Sherlock told John about his childhood and Redbeard. John told Sherlock about Harry and his rugby mates. John had never been happier, but he knew that this couldn’t continue. He could be pulled back at any time, leaving a confused and oblivious John Watson in his wake. John decided to tell Sherlock that it was time for him to go.

Sherlock was laughing about this woman he had deduced on the tube the other day, when he looked at John and stopped.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock, I hate to say this, but I have to go.”

A wave of relief passed over Sherlock’s face. “Oh, I thought it was something bad,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

John sighed and looked down, shaking his head. “No, Sherlock, I won’t be able to see you for awhile.”

“What!?” Sherlock shouted. “But, I just met you, and I like you, you can’t just leave! Why are you leaving?”

“Sherlock, it’s hard to explain. I have loved talking to you these past couple days, but I need to go,” John told him, sadly.

“Will I ever see you again?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows scrunched together on his face.

John nodded. “I’ll make you a deal. You get clean, and find me again in a few years. I just hope Mycroft will explain everything.”

Sherlock frowned. “But, how will I find you?”

John smiled. “You’ll find a way, and remember, we knew each other in a different life and still found each other. Our souls are connected in a way that I don’t know I’ll ever understand.”

Sherlock smiled a little. “You’re a romantic, John Watson, did you know that?”

John laughed. “I did, actually. Now, really Sherlock, I have to go.”

John stood up, noticing then that Greg was not in the room.

Sherlock saw him looking. “He left when you first came in, didn’t you notice?”

John looked at Sherlock, his Sherlock. Those stormy turquoise eyes staring at him with a warm intensity. “No, I...didn’t.” John shrugged and opened his arms. “C’mere, you mad git.”

Sherlock smiled and put himself into John’s arms, wrapping his own long ones around John’s neck. John lightly kissed his temple. As he choke back tears at the feeling of once again holding this man- boy- in his arms, he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “Remember me. And stay safe, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, pulling back. John tried hard to not cry, but he could feel the tears threatening to leak from his eyes. John walked to the door and opened it, hearing Sherlock call out behind him, “I’ll never forget you, John Watson!”

***

No sooner than he had walked out the door, John woke up. He felt Professor Ellington’s hands pull the electrodes gently from his skin. John blinked and let out a groggy moan.

“Well, did it work, John?” the professor asked excitedly.

John smiled, a rush of memories flooding his thoughts. “It worked.”

“So, you woke up in your own body then?”

“Yes,” John said, pulling his shirt that the Professor had handed him over his head. “I woke up in my twenty year old body in 1992 London.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news, John!” Professor Ellington shouted, pulling John out of the machine with one hand and waving his clipboard with the other. “Now, you must tell me everything, alright? I need every deta-”

“I need to speak with Mycroft,” John said, cutting him off.

Professor Ellington blinked. “Oh, of course, John, of course. I’ll get someone to call him, alright? But, for the time being, I need you to sit with Dr. Jensing over at that table there. She’s documenting the entire experiment. Just answer a few questions, alright?”

John sighed tiredly and dragged his feet over to a table where a young, blonde woman sat typing on a computer. “Oh, hi! You must be John, the test subject,” she said cheerily.

“Yeah, yeah,” John answered, scratching at the back of his neck. “So did I alter the course of history or what?”

Dr. Jensing laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, John. Everything is the same. What you’ve done is create an alternate timeline with an alternate future. The past you visited, while familiar and technically the same as the first past you experienced as a young man, is really an alternate universe. You can never actually experience the same events twice.”

“Oh,” John said, strangely disappointed. So there wouldn’t be a Sherlock.

The woman smiled at him and began asking how he felt and if he experienced any worrying symptoms while time traveling. Just as she got to what he saw, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Professor Ellington. “Hello, John, Mycroft can see you now. He has a car waiting.”

John nodded. Now he knew for sure that nothing had changed.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! ;)

John opened the door to Mycroft’s sleek black car and slid in next to him. John was feeling pretty good at that moment, and decided to be cheeky.

“Really, Mycroft. _Eyeliner?_ ” John teased, feeling amused as Mycroft’s face pinkened slightly. John chuckled when Mycroft stayed silent.

“Yes, Mycroft, the time machine worked,” John told him, crossing his legs.

Mycroft nodded. “So, I assume you found Sherlock?”

John’s face turned serious for a moment. “Yeah. He was...not doing so good, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I believe I do. Sherlock had a rather rough youth. I tried to help him as much as I could, but he wouldn’t listen to me, or accept my help, a fact that has never changed,” Mycroft said carefully.

John bit his cheek in thought, until he remembered Greg. “So you and Greg, then?”

Mycroft took a sharp intake of breath. “You found us as well?”

John shrugged. “I asked Sherlock where you were. He told me. He wasn’t too happy about it” He laughed.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “To answer your earlier question, yes, Greg and I dated for a few years. We had...a lot in common.”

John snorted. “Yeah, like a love for punk rock music and shitty band tees. I never would’ve guess that you liked the Sex Pistols.”

Mycroft almost smiled. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, John.”

“I can see that. Now take me home.”

***

John opened the door to 221b, shouting a hello to Mrs. Hudson’s door. She bustled out, a worried look on her face that John had never seen before. “John. John. Now, don’t get angry. He’s been through so much for us, and I know how you react to things like this, dear. Just don’t-” she said hurriedly, as John walked up the stairs.

John blinked. “What on Earth are you talking about?” he asked, pushing open the door.

Only to find a shirtless Sherlock sitting on the sofa.

John audibly choked, afraid that what he was seeing was a hallucination. That is, until he saw Mrs. Hudson looking at Sherlock, too.

Sherlock looked up, and John saw bruises on his face. He looked so much like the young Sherlock that John had just met, that John took a double take. “Sherlock?” John whispered, taking in his gaunt figure and numerous lacerations on his pale body.

He stood up, wincing with the effort. “John, I can explain. I was-”

Sherlock was cut off with John’s lips pressing a chaste kiss to his. “You bastard,” John whispered, taking Sherlock’s face gently in his hands. “God, you _bastard_.”

Sherlock let go a breath of what John assumed was relief.  John smiled. “I missed you.”

Sherlock stared at John like he was magic.

John barely noticed Mrs. Hudson sneaking out of the room. He silently thanked her for letting them have a moment for themselves. John ran a thumb over Sherlock’s bruised cheekbone and saw the first aid kit on the floor, various bloodied bandages surrounding it. “Let me help you,” John said.

He and Sherlock sat down on the couch, and John saw the confused look on Sherlock’s face.

“I thought you would be angry,” he told him, lifting an arm so John could look at his ribs.

John dabbed ointment on the cut. “Oh, I am; don’t worry about that. I’m happier than angry is all. I-”

John paused, surprised to feel his eyes watering. “I didn’t know what I’d do without you. If not for going back in time and seeing you, and just _talking_ to you, I would’ve- I would’ve-”

John couldn’t say those two words, but he knew that Sherlock would understand him.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, “Mycroft told me about that little experiment. So, you saw me as a teenager then?”

John’s mouth was set in a straight line. “I don’t know why you didn’t let Mycroft help you.”

“I didn’t deserve help,” Sherlock said, quietly. “I deserved what happened to me.”

“No.”

“What?”

John said it again, more forcefully. “ _No_. No one deserves to be assaulted, Sherlock. No one deserves to be beaten. No one deserves to be hurt like they hurt you.”

“I was a _junkie_ , John!” Sherlock shouted. “I was an addict!”

“You were sixteen!” John shouted. “Just the fact that someone hurt you....I couldn’t just let you suffer, Sherlock, I made you talk to me, I _know_ what happened.”

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. “You talked to me? I _told_ you?”

“Yes,” John said, nodding. “You deserve to be loved, Sherlock, I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

Sherlock looked down at his bruised knuckles. “Even when I was on heroin, as a sex worker, you tried to help me.”

John blinked. “Of course. I love you, Sherlock.”

“You- you love me?” Sherlock said, questioningly. “You care that much that you saw me as- as _that_ , and you still love me?”

John swallowed, setting a bandage down. “Sherlock, I will always love you, no matter what. I realized that, when you...fell.”

Sherlock took one of John’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “John Watson, you never cease to amaze me.”

John blushed and felt the tips of his hears heat. “Well, er. Yeah, I guess.”

Sherlock’s hand stayed in John’s. “Do you want to know why I did it?”

“Eventually,” John said, evenly. “But, not now. Right now, I’m just happy you’re home.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up, and those turquoise eyes seemed to twinkle. “I am, too.”


	9. Epilogue

_3 months later…_

John woke up to find a head of dark curls resting on his chest, and arms and legs tangled around him. John recently discovered that Sherlock was a cuddler. Not that he minded. He pressed a kiss to that mop of curls, and watched Sherlock softly snore for a few moments before rubbing a hand up and down Sherlock’s back.

“Love, wake up,” John whispered. He was met with a low groan of irritation. “C’mon, you berk, I have to get ready for work.”

He heard a muffled reply rumble into his chest. “What was that?” John asked, smirking. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Sherlock lifted his head up, his face inches away from John’s. John nearly laughed at the sight of Sherlock’s cheekbones covered in lines from John’s shirt. “I said, _stay home_ ,” Sherlock murmured, looking into John’s eyes.

John laughed. “Oh , no you don’t,” he said. “I’m not letting the puppy eyes work this time.”

Sherlock huffed and put his head back on John’s chest, his sharp cheekbone resting on John’s left pectoral. “I don’t have any cases today.”

John pretended to think for moment. “I don’t know… Sarah’s going to get pissed if I call in.”

John could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes. “Can we not talk about her right now?”

“I forgot how possessive and jealous you are. Sorry, love,” John snorted.

Sherlock brought his head up again, and pressed his lips to John’s cheek. “I have every reason to be.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

John felt Sherlock smile against his cheek. “It’s just that you’re devilishly handsome.”

John sat up, pulling Sherlock up with him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s thin but muscular body. “Well, if you’re going to keep talking like that, I might just have to stay home.”

“I promise you won’t be disappointed,” Sherlock murmured, pressing his lips to John’s neck.

“Breakfast?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, nipping John’s neck. “Hmm. Yes. After last night, I’ve worked up quite the appetite.”

John smiled, remembering last night. “I’ll never get over how sexy you are.”

Sherlock laughed and rolled on top of John, pushing his down onto the mattress. “I’d hope not, Captain.”

John gasped as Sherlock kissed up his jaw. “Oh, you can’t do that. That’s not fair.”

Sherlock slid his hands up John’s shirt. “I never play fair.”

“I’ve noticed.”

John sighed as Sherlock kissed over his pulse point, and in that moment, he had never been happier. He wondered how the other John was doing, in that other universe. He hoped that John had found his Sherlock again. John stopped Sherlock for a moment, and ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock looked at John in that way he sometimes did, when John amazed him.

“What?” John asked.

“I don’t know how I ever lived without you,” Sherlock said sincerely.

John blinked. “Sherlock…”

“No, I mean it. You’re everything to me. I know I don’t say it enough, but it’s true.”

John swallowed. “Marry me.”

The detective sat up on the bed. “John?”

“I’m serious. I want you. Forever.”

“John…”

“We can have the matching rings, and everyone can see that we belong to each other. You’d like that, right? I mean, we don’t have to have a big wedding. It could just be us, if you wanted. We don’t have to do it right now. I just love you, so much, Sherlock. I can’t stand the thought of not being with you for the rest of my life.”

“ _John_.”

“No, let me finish. I know you’re not big on traditional romance things, but I promise that it’ll be however you want. It’s all up to you. If you don’t want rings even, we won’t get them. I need this, Sherlock. So, please just say-”

“Yes,” Sherlock cut in.

John’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Yes, I will marry you and get the rings. We can have a wedding with a few of our friends, our family. It could be big. And, John? I _want_ the romance. I want everything, if it’s with you.”

John sat up and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, filled with a kind of love that John had never experienced before Sherlock. It wasn’t a sexual kiss; it was a romantic kiss. John silently thanked his lucky stars that he knew this side of Sherlock.

After a few moments, John pulled back. “You do know that I’m going to seat Greg and Mycroft by each other?”

Sherlock laughed. “Of course.”

“Now, come here, future husband, and make love to me.”

So, Sherlock did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yay! We’re finished! And, yes, I will be making a sequel to this filled with wedding troubles, fluff, smut (yes, smut), and Mystrade! I loved writing this and I hope you all enjoyed it. Please leave comments and suggestions. I’d love to know what you think. -Alethea


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